My Brooklyn (365)

Jim Barrett

I have been really blessed in life. I lived in two Brooklyns. The first was on New York Avenue between J and K, where I lived as a child and attended Our Lady Help of Cristians. We lived upstairs in an attached duplex where four families shared a small common porch. The building was owned by my grandfather, who provided rent free living for our family, my aunt and uncle who lived downstairs, his sister who lived downstairs on the right, and the Lynch's, who rented the upstairs right. Grandma and Grandpa lived down the block with my other aunt and uncle who just came home from the war. This family-centered Brooklyn ended in 1951, when I was ten years old. I left the "Walton Mountain" section of Brooklyn where everyone was related to everyone else, and left for the World that Brooklyn had to offer.

We moved to a new apartment project named Vanderveer Estates on Brooklyn and Foster Avenue. It was a great education in cultural diversity. Before this I never recall meeting anyone who was not Catlic and part Irish, German or Italian. All of a sudden I began meeting Jooish guys from Russia, Lutheran girls from Poland and Orthodox people from the Ukraine. The best part was all of the new foods. Knishes, hot pastrami on rye with a Dr. Brown's cream soda; kielbasa and pierogis, sausage and peppers. Most everyone worked hard, stayed married and believed in each other. We traveled anywhere day or night without concern. Nobody did drugs. School yards and churches were always open. We entertained ourselves with stick-ball, punch-ball, box-ball, slap-ball, handball or stoop-ball. We weren't related, but for some magical reason treated each other as if we were. Having the greatest friends in the world, where every day was an adventure, when life was carefree. When not having any money never stopped you from doing anything. Every block or terrace had their own softball, basketball, football teams. Everyone had a great nickname: Legs, Crash, Beaver, JB, Keevo, Fang, Elv, Kobes, Willie, Finch, Sosh, Klu and others. Hitching buses and snow sliding on car bumpers. Our most prized possession was a soft new pink Spaulding, or a Mickey Mantle baseball card. We traveled all over Brooklyn on roller skates or Schwinn bicycles. We lived to hear Rocky's Peter Pan ice cream truck, and spent our evenings on the Terrace, in Farragut Lanes or in front of Carl and Mike's planning our adventures up in the mountains.

During the summer when we were not at 269 Park, we would cover ourselves with baby oil and flock to Riis park for some burn and peel action. We sat crowded on hot sand, eating lemon ices and Creamsickles. We never went to the beach to swim; we went there to hang out. The fourth of July was spent atop the six-floor apartment building watching the fireworks from Coney Island along with our neighbors. Coney Island Steeplechase, Cyclone, penny arcades, Nathan's hot dogs and a cup of fries. Being a Yankee fan among the most devout Dodger fans while listening to Dad talk about his Giants. Mantle, Snyder or Mays arguments. Did Farillo, Bauer or Mueller have the best arm. I'll never forget the bakery smells, hot rolls, still-warm corn muffins, rye bread and bagels. Doo-Wop a capella groups in D-A haircuts smoking cigarettes and harmonizing in bathrooms and train stations. Black motorcycle jackets with white T-shirts, with a pack of Luckies rolled up in the sleeve. Drag-racin'. Legs in his '55 Olds, Sosh in his 'vette-powered '56 Ford and me in my tri-powered '60 Chevy convertible. Friday-night cruisin' down Ocean Parkway with our carefree friends, after hanging out at Carl and Mikes store, sharing soda fountain stories about egg creams, or Farragut Bowling Alley with its 45-rpm jukeboxes. Who can ever forget dancing-in-the-aisles at Alan Freed's rock-'n-roll shows at the Fox or Paramount.

I will never forget the diversity and achievement level of the people. Everything from the best singers, toughest guys, most gentle women, many with incredible insight and intelligence; everyone believing in ourselves, our country and the opportunities it offered. We also had our share of people with the personality of a toad or the intellect of a brick, but they were few and far in between. Everything passed by all too quickly with a special excitement, attitude and flavor that I have not known since. And, oh, that music, you just had to be there.

The real magic of growing up in Brooklyn in the '50s and '60s was that it occurred before "keeping up with the Jones's" mentality set in. No one could afford that type of nonsense back then. I'll never forget the night Dad came home and proudly announced to the family that he was now earning $100 a week, and that soon we would have a TV. It was before Vietnam and Watergate, back in a time when things were right. This was not Camelot. This was a magical place; a place we called Brooklyn. And a place we all called home.

24 July 2001